


Hollow-Point Smile

by Sapphy, SapphyWatchesYouSleep (Sapphy)



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Chronic Pain, Crossdressing, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Character, Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic-Users, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Partial Mind Control, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Rape Recovery, References to Suicide, Rescue Missions, Robots, Sibling Love, Suicide Attempt, they're damaged people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/SapphyWatchesYouSleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After what Typhoid Mary did to him, Wade doesn't want to live any more. Good thing he's got Clint there to look after him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Set in an AU where Clint and Wade were partners at SHEILD)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just call me JARVIS 'Brain the size of a planet and all they expect me to do it provide exposition' Stark

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't know where this is going. I swear, this was meant to be a comedy...
> 
> For those who don't know the comics, Wade is raped by Typhoid Mary, in the way that's described in this fic.
> 
> None of the opinions, or therapies, used in this fic are mine, or a good idea. They're the opinions and actions of these characters.
> 
> This is one of my first attempts at writing Wade, and I'm not hugely pleased with his voice.
> 
> I don't have any kind of schedule for updates I'm afraid. As and when my muse gives me more to write, I suppose.
> 
> I own nothing.
> 
> Inspired by arrows-and-duct-tape on tumblr's awesome AU gifs: http://arrows-and-duct-tape.tumblr.com/

“JARVIS, where’s Clint? I want him to look over those new EMP arrows I made,” Tony demanded, voice slightly muffled by the three screws he was holding in the corner of his mouth as he carefully reattatched the back-plate on the mini spectrograph he’d been working on for Bruce.

“Agent Barton is still at SHEILD, sir.”

“When when’s he going to be back?”

“Mr Wilson is not expected to regain consciousness for at least another 24 hours. I do not believe Agent Barton will leave his beside until he does.”

Tony sighed and tightened the final screw. “Who is this Wilson, anyway? I’ve never heard of him. What’ve you got on him?”

“I have a partial biography on file. Would you like me to read it too you?”

Tony flopped down into his office chair and began to wheel himself towards the coffee machine. “Go ahead, J.”

“He is known as Wade Wilson, though we have reason to believe that may be an alias. There is no record of him before the age of twelve, when he was living rough on the streets of Toronto. He was picked up and made a ward of the state. He spent three years in a children’s home. When the home was closed due to lack of funding, certain of the children, Wilson included, were persuaded to join the Weapon X program.

“As you know, sir, Weapon X was a Canadian Government project designed to create genetically enhanced super soldiers, primarily by artificially giving, or enhancing, mutant powers. Children were found to be better suited since their bodies adapted better to the changes in their DNA.

“As well as training Wilson to use a variety of weapons, and in unarmed combat, they attempted to give him a healing factor based on that of the mutant Wolverine.

“Initially the experiment seemed to have been a success. However it was soon discovered that the experimental gene therapy that caused a secondary mutation – cancer. He was sent to a facility owned by Project K, known as the Hospice, where all Weapon X’s failed experiments were sent.

“There are no records of what happened to him in there, but after a year and a half, Wilson fought his way out, leaving most of the staff dead and freeing a number of other patients, who revealed that they had been held against their will, and used as unwilling test subjects for a number of horrific medical experiments.

“Wilson then moved to New York, where he became the masked assassin, Deadpool. He worked as a gun for hire in New York’s criminal underworld, and used the money he made to support himself while he attempted to make up the years of education he had missed.

“At this point, Agent Barton was sent to recruit him to SHEILD. He was successful, and they were partners for many years, before Wilson became disillusioned with SHEILD and returned to freelance work, though he avoids harming those he sees as innocent.”

Tony whistled softly. “And he and Clint are friends?”

“I believe Agent Barton considers Wilson to be his closest friend.”

“And now Wilson’s tried to top himself?”

“Mr Wilson is what I believe is colloquially referred to as stark staring bonkers. His SHEILD medical file indicates schizophrenia, with audio and visual hallucinations, possible MPD, and severe PTSD.”

Tony was silent while he digested this. “If he’s no longer with SHEILD,” he asked at last, “why’s he in their medical bay? As I remember, SHEILD aren’t too keen on disloyalty.”

“Although he is no longer an Agent, Mr Wilson is still sometimes called in for special cases. In addition, Agent Coulson was Wilson’s handler, and retains a certain fondness for him. I believe he was instrumental in arranging Wilson’s treatment.”

“Bruce says we should have him to stay. What do you think?”

“If I may be blunt sir, I believe there are quite enough traumatized people with superpowers already on the premises, and adding one more would be a poor idea at best. I also, if you will excuse me, do not feel the Avengers are qualified to help a man with problems like his.”

“That’s what I thought. Prepare a bed for him in Clint’s suit, and send a message to SHEILD to let them know he’s coming back here when he’s released.”

“Sir, are you sure…”

“Yes JARVIS, I am.”

“Very well sir. Just remember, this was your idea. I will accept no part of the blame for the situation.”


	2. Day 1

Clint had fallen asleep sitting up, exhaustion and his sniper’s ability to get comfy anywhere lulling him into a doze, but years of being alert to the slightest noise around him meant he woke at the same time Wade did.

He muttered something that Clint knew from long experience was ‘mama’, and struggled weakly to sit up.

“You’re alive,” Clint told him, reaching to help him sit up. He was pretty sure people this sick were supposed to lie still, but normal medical logic didn’t exactly apply to Wade.

“WheremI?” Wade slurred out, reaching vaguely until his hand caught Clint’s and holding it tightly. “Whyshawkeye?”

Clint gave his hand a squeeze, but didn’t release it. He’d realized early on in their friendship that Wade was touch starved, and had learned to use that to his advantage, a quick and easy way of calming or reassuring his friend.

“You’re on the Hellicarrier,” he told him. “You want some water?”

Wade had been on a drip, but he knew from experience that those things didn’t stop your brain from thinking you needed to drink.

Wade nodded, and gulped the water Clint brought him, Clint holding the glass for him to stop him from drowning himself.

Only then did Wade open his eyes.

“Thought Fury was pissed with me,” he said, his eyes focusing on Clint in a way that suggested his optical nerves were back on line. Sight always seemed to take the longest of all his senses to come back when he did something like this.

/He is/ Clint signed with a grin. /Me and Coulson arranged things so that he doesn’t officially know that you’re here/

Wade laughed, his voice croaky with disuse, and teased, “Aw, you looooove me!”

He signed along as he spoke, force of habit Clint supposed, but his fingers were slow and clumsy, producing the visual version of drunken slurring.

/I love you so much that I’m going to take you home with me/ Clint replied.

“You’d better make an honest woman out of me first,” Wade said. He shifted and groaned with pain. “What the fuck happened to me anyway?”

/You sent me a text saying that I wasn’t to worry, but that you needed to speak to your mama/ Clint told him. /I came straight round. Pint of bleach and a bullet to the brain. Made a hell of a mess./

Wade nodded, like it was all coming back to him. “Maybe I should just move. Probably be easier that trying to get brain out of the carpet again.”

/You don’t have any carpets/ Clint pointed out. He hated Wade’s apartment, it was like a visual representation of his friend’s depression. /Coulson got a SHEILD clean up team in. You owe him big time./

“Tell him to add it to my tab,” Wade said. There was a moment’s silence, then he burst out, “Wait, don’t you live in Stark Tower now?!”

Clint nodded. /Try not too piss Tony off too much. He wasn’t entirely happy about having a mentally ill mercenary living with him. I had to promise you would be on your best behavior. And Bruce did puppy dog eyes. He has a soft spot for would-be suicides./

/Even Hulk thinks I’m a charity case/ Wade signed, the way he always did with things he didn’t want to say out loud.

/Think of it as a holiday/ Clint told him. /I packed your stuff while the cleaners were in. We can leave any time you like./

The door burst open then, framing Thor in all his glory. He’d taken to human clothing, apparently at his girl’s insistence, but it didn’t make him look any less god-like.

/Oh my god/ Wade signed, /It’s the God of Labradors!/

Clint coughed unconvincingly to cover up his snort of laughter, and said, “Thor, this is Deadpool. ‘Pool, this is Thor Odinson.”

“I met your brother once,” Wade told Thor. “Odd guy. Gave me an awesome hat though. Are you the official escort?”

“Friend Tony instructed me that I was to accompany you to his home, to keep you from any ill.”

That was unusually tactful of Thor, since Clint was pretty sure that what Tony had actually said was something more along the lines off ‘I don’t trust those psychopaths with any of my stuff. Go and make sure they don’t blow anything up before they get home.”

“I didn’t know superheroes needed a bodyguard,” Wade said, but his tone was light-hearted. Clint let out a relieved sigh. You never knew what was going to offend Wade.

“I do not doubt your prowess in battle, my friend,” Thor told him, all sincerity, “But you have been gravely wounded, and the good Hawk has been at your bedside for many days, waiting for you to awaken.”

/Pretend he’s being written by a medieval literature scholar on acid/ Clint signed. /It makes it easier to bear./

/What do you mean, pretend?/

“Ah,” Thor exclaimed happily, “You too know this ingenious method of talking with your hands. I have observed friend Clint and the Lady Natasha use this skill, and I am much desirous of learning it.”

“I’ll teach you,” Wade offered brightly.

“We’ll teach you,” Clint corrected, because no way was he letting Wade teach Thor anything unsupervised. Not that he was likely to actually stop Wade from doing anything outrageous, but it was the principle of the thing. He was the responsible one in this partnership. Sort of.

Thor grinned what Tony called his ‘make him the poster boy for aliens and everyone would welcome the invasion’ smile. “If you are ready, Deadpool, we can depart.”

Deadpool nodded, and then suddenly seemed to notice for the first time that he wasn’t wearing his mask. “You bastard,” he hissed at Clint, one hand coming up to try and hide his face. “Where the fuck’s my mask?!”

“I had bullet holes front and back and it was covered in brains,” Clint told him, producing the spare mask he always carried when he was around Wade. “Good thing you have so many spares.”

Wade snatched the mask and tugged it on, letting out a small sigh of relief when it was on. “Now I’m ready to go,” he told Thor.

He scrambled out of bed, wobbly enough on his feet that he actually deigned to accept the supportive arm Clint offered him, and looked down at himself. Coulson had, in a fit of unusual maliciousness, provided Wade with a pair of blue and white striped flannel pajamas. They looked like something Steve would own.

“You’d better have packed some of my pajamas,” Wade grumbled, as they made slow and hobbling progress out of the medibay.

Clint refrained from pointing out that Wade’s ‘pajamas’ were actually mostly pastel colored shorty nighties with lace and frills. Some things Thor didn’t need to know.

They attracted some odd looks as they made their way through the Helicarrier, but mostly from new agents, too green too be used to the sight of a sleep deprived Hawkeye helping a masked mercenary in striped pajamas to hobble down SHEILD’s corridors, escorted by the God of Thunder. Those who’d worked there a little longer didn’t even blink.

Happy was waiting for them on the helicarrier’s launch pad, in Tony’s sleek black helicopter. Helicopters were not normally associated with the word sleek, but Tony refused to make anything that wasn’t pretty. He waved when he saw them coming, and started up the blades.

Wade’s eyes lit up at the sight of the spinning blades, the way they always did, and Clint, with a practice born of long experience, pinned his friend’s arms to his sides and frog marched him into the helicopter. It was amazing how much mess even a single finger could make when it was being spread around by a helicopter’s blades.

/So how’s being a superhero working out for you?/ Wade signed as the helicopter took off.

/Pretty good/ Clint answered, trying to keep the grin from his face. Wade didn’t need it rubbed in his face that his ex-partner was now a member of the most powerful team of superheroes on the planet. /How’s the mercenary business?/

Wade just shrugged, which meant things were really bad. Clint didn’t press. He’d get the whole story from him once they were safely tucked away in Clint’s nest.

The rest of the journey was conducted in silence, none of them wanting to shout to be heard over the engines. Wade caught Clint’s hand, and held it tightly for the entire trip. Thor either didn’t notice, or was polite enough to pretend he hadn’t.

Wade brightened up a little once the helicopter came into sight of Stark tower, his fanboyish excitement at meeting the Avengers overriding his melancholy. That was one of Clint’s favorite things about Wade. Though there was a bone deep melancholy he would never truly shake, he took a child-like joy in the world around him, and it was never hard to cheer him up, even if only for a little while.

Dum-E was waiting on the helipad, Tony’s idea of a welcoming party, his arm tilted upwards to watch them arrive. Wade bounced out of the helicopter as soon as it touched down, skipping over to shake Dum-E’s hand.

Dum-E made a little bleeping noise that Clint was learning to interpret as pleasure, and rolled around them so it could herd them towards the lift. There were, naturally, no stairs in Stark Tower except the fire exits because Tony’s robots didn’t do so well with stairs.

When they were in the lift, Dum-E rolled in beside them and hit the basement button.

“No Dummy,” JARVIS’s patient tone said. “They’re going to Agent Barton’s rooms, not the workshops.”

Dum-E clicked a whirred for a minute, processing what he’d just been told, and then with great ceremony, pressed the button for the 53rd floor.

“He’s quite bright really,” JARVIS said indulgently. “You just have to allow him the time to work things out. It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Wilson. I am JARVIS. I’m in charge of the tower.”

“Are you sitting in a control room somewhere watching me on a screen?” Wade asked suspiciously.

“I am an AI, Mr. Wilson,” JARVIS replied. “I am, in the broadest possible sense, the tower’s computer system.”

“Ah, well, that’s okay then,” Wade said, relaxing. “Nice to meet ya.”

“Agent Barton, I have set had a second bed set up in your quarters for your guest. I hope that is acceptable.”

“That’s fine, JARVIS,” Clint replied. The AI didn’t need to know that he was planning for him and Wade to sleep together in his nest. He wanted Wade somewhere safe where he could keep an eye on him, at least to begin with.

“I also took the liberty of having Dum-E unpack your bags, Mr. Wilson.”

“You been rummaging in my underoos?” Wade demanded of the robot, who hung his head and looked so ashamed that Wade laughed. “It’s cool little guy. I know you won’t tell anyone what you found.”

Clint thought it wasn’t necessary for Wade to know that, while Dum-E couldn’t pass on stuff like that, JARVIS could, and would. It had probably been added to the file that JARVIS would undoubtedly been keeping on the mercenary.

The lift came to a stop, and Dum-E waved goodbye to them as they got out.

“Do you think Stark would make me one of those?” Wade asked, staring wistfully at the closed lift doors.

“I hope not,” Clint replied. “You do more than enough damage on your own. The last thing you need is a robot side-kick.”

Wade just grinned.

Clint’s rooms were large and spacious, but the best thing about them was that Tony had knocked out the floors of the rooms above to make them double height, and added in a suspended platform in one corner. That was Clint’s nest, and it was his favorite place ever.

“We’re sleeping up there,” Clint told his friend, nodding to the nest. “I want you off the ground.”

Wade, so used to Clint’s idiosyncrasies by now that he hardly noticed them, just nodded.

“What do you want to do first,” Clint asked. “Tell me what happened, or make nice and meet the rest of the team? You’ve got to do both,” he added quickly. “I just want to know what order you want to do them in.”

“I… I don’t want to meet anyone,” Wade said, in a small voice. “Not right now.”

“Go put your nightie on then,” Clint said, “And you can tell me all about it. I’m going to grab us something to drink. Coffee?”

“Hot chocolate,” Wade said, his voice barely audible, and Clint’s stomach dropped. Wade only drank hot chocolate when something was really, massively, wrong.

Steve was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and looking pensive.

“How’s your friend,” he asked, as soon as Clint came in. The thing about Steve, Clint reflected, was that however annoying he could be, he cared. Really truly cared, about everyone.

“Physically he’s fine,” Clint told him, as he poured milk into two mugs.

“And emotionally?”

“He’ll be okay,” Clint said fiercely, and was horrified to feel a tear running down his cheek. “He’s got to be okay.”

Steve waited till Clint had put the mugs in the microwave and started it, then pulled him into a tight hug.

“It’s hard,” he said softly, “to see a friend hurting.”

“I think he meant it,” Clint said, hiding his tears in Steve’s shoulder. “He does this sometimes, shoots himself in the head, but this time I think he really meant it, and I thought he was better. I thought he was getting better.”

“He’ll be okay,” Steve said firmly. “How can he not be when he’s got friends like you?”

Clint wanted to say that’s Wade’s darkness and despair was part of him, was dug so deep into his soul that no matter how much Clint cared about him, he would never be able to touch it. But he didn’t have the words, and he didn’t want to entrust Wade’s secrets to someone he didn’t know, and the microwave interrupted them with its insistent beeping.

He was silent as he stirred the chocolate powder into the mugs and topped them with whipped cream. Tony’s idea of what constituted household essentials was eccentric at best, but he always had aerosol cream in stock, which Clint was frequently grateful for. He actually suspected Tony only bought it for him.

Steve clapped him on the shoulder as he left, and Clint managed a small strained smile. He’d forgotten what hard work caring for someone was.

When he got back to his room, Wade was sitting in the nest, wearing a pale pink nightie and his mask rolled up to the bridge of his nose and looking pleased with himself.

“Lower the basket and the rope,” Clint ordered.

When Wade obediently lowered the container Clint had installed for just that purpose, Clint put the mugs in it, grabbed a pair of track pants and a clean t-shirt from one of the drawers, and shinned up the rope.

“You shouldn’t have climbed up by yourself,” Clint told his friend. “What if you’d fallen?”

“Then I’d have broken legs,” Wade said, reasonably. Clint knew that injuries hurt him just as much as they did anyone else, but he’d always been careless of his personal safety. Clint suspected it had more to do with Wade’s personality than it did his healing abilities.

“You ready to talk about it?” Clint asked gently, as Wade took a sip of his hot chocolate.

He shuffled out of his clothes, which he’d been wearing ever since he got Wade’s text, too worried to bother about changing. It was a sign of just how distressed Wade really was that he didn’t even bother leering as Clint changed his jeans for the soft clean joggers.

/I can’t say it out loud/ Wade eventually signed, tugging a blanket close round his shoulders. /It’s too… much/

Clint nodded, to show his understanding and acceptance, and waited. Wade would tell him when he was ready.

/I… she had an holographic image inducer. I thought she was Terry./

Clint’s blood ran cold. If this was what it sounded like…

/I had a row with Terry. And then… I thought she’d come back for me. I thought she wanted to make up. And, and… Then next morning, she told me the truth. Typhoid Mary, with a fucking image inducer./ Wade’s face was tight and pale, his expression heartbreakingly bleak. /I thought, I didn’t…/ He slumped, and whispered, “I just wanted my mama.”

Clint reached out slowly, making sure Wade wouldn’t be spooked, and pulled his friend into a tight embrace.

“We’ll kill her,” he promised. He pulled back, resting he forehead against Wade’s. “We’ll kill her, and then she’ll never be able to hurt you again, I swear.”

“Daredevil wouldn’t like that,” Wade muttered.

“Fuck Daredevil. She’s crossed so many fucking lines. She doesn’t get mercy, not now.”

Clint’s voice was hard. He knew it would take more, much more, for Wade to move past this, that he might never manage it, but violence and retribution were Wade’s first language, the one he understood best. Clint knew nothing would soothe his friend like knowing Typhoid Mary was somewhere she could never touch him again.

“Don’t tell the others,” Wade pleaded, making no move to break Clint’s hold on him.

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed off,” Clint told him fiercely. “But of course I won’t tell them without your permission. Only…”

“Only?”

“JARVIS. I think he listens.”

“I do indeed, Agent Barton.”

Wade started like a frightened animal at the sound of the cultured voice. “You can’t tell Stark,” he hissed.

“I am afraid I am obliged to by my programming,” JARVIS said, but he sounded genuinely regretful. “However I can assure you that… well, that Mr. Stark will understand. He has had some… unpleasant experiences. He will not bring it up.”

Wade seemed to shrink, slumping in on himself. “I’m going to be a laughingstock,” he whispered.

“Don’t be stupid,” Clint retorted firmly. “Something really fucking awful happened to you. Again. That doesn’t make you any less of a man. The pink nightie on the other hand…”

Wade managed to summon a weak smile for the old joke. Clint had known since before they first teamed up about Wade’s penchant for women’s clothes, and Wade knew he didn’t care, but that didn’t stop him teasing him about it.

“JARVIS, do you have Legally Blond on file?” Clint asked.

“Yes Agent Barton. Though if you ever mention the fact to anyone, Mr. Stark will be most displeased.”

“Put it on the screen please.” The screen was huge, positioned so that he could see it easily from the nest.

He shinned down the rope to collect the bedding from what had been meant to be Wade’s bed, and then the two of them curled up and prepared to critique a film they both secretly loved.


	3. Gender Politics and Virtual Ettiquette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JARVIS shares what he has learnt with Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the stuff that is discussed in this chapter may seen kind of odd to regular Marvel fans, so I'm taking a leaf out of Ysabetwordsmith's book and ending this chapter with extensive notes. Read them for explanations of some of the non-canon stuff going on here.

“I have some updates for you on Mr Wilson.” JARVIS’s voice was as cool and calm as always as it rang through the lab, but Tony knew his AI well enough by now to hear that there was something wrong.

“He going to try and top himself again?” Tony asked, setting down the screwdriver he’d been using and dropping back into the chair DUM-E had pushed up behind him.

“Oh, probably, sir,” JARVIS said. “That was not what I wished to tell you.”

“What was it last time? Bleach and a bullet? We’re gonna need better clean up then. I should build some cleaning robots. You know, like those stupid little hockey puck things Hammer makes? I should totally make some of those, only cooler and more efficient. And able to clean the ceilings. I’ve never seen someone shoot themselves in the head. Is it as messy as in the films?”

“Sir, if I could…”

“Do you think wheels, or legs? Wheels seems more practical, ‘cos then they can suck as the move, but think how much cuter they’d be with legs. I’ve never built a robot with legs. Not a proper one. Maybe I should. DUM-E, would you like legs?”

“TONY,” JARVIS thundered, making full use of the many speakers he had access too, as well as using his creator’s given name, something he almost never did, despite Tony giving him permission. “You will sit down, and be quiet, and you will listen, Tony Stark. This is important.”

“Right. Yes. Okay. Sorry J. Listening now.”

“Thank you. I have, as instructed, been monitoring Mr Wilson from the moment he stepped into the helicopter. In addition I now have access to Mr Wilson’s complete SHIELD personnel file.”

“That was quick.”

“Someone, I believe Agent Coulson, left a back door open. I believe he considers it important that we have this information.”

“Okay, well, go ahead. Lay it on me, J.”

“Firstly, I believe you should be informed that Mr Wilson has a preference for female clothing, and that any negative reactions to that on your part will not be well received.”

“Got it. Angry cross-dresser with a sword. Do not antagonize.”

“I am not sure that is a wholly accurate assessment,” JARVIS says primly. “Although he has brought a number of weapons with him. SHIELD psychological files indicate his gender identity is somewhat fluid, ranging from female to what one might call aggressively masculine, though he defaults to male.”

“Are we talking full on gender-fluid, always check pronouns here?” Tony asks. “Or just be carefully what you say and don’t laugh at his dresses?”

“I made some discreet enquiries of Agent Barton,” JARVIS said, and Tony could here in his voice that he was pleased that Tony had thought to check. “He indicated that pronoun checks would not be received well, and that male pronouns should be used regardless of how Mr Wilson is presenting.”

“Things were much easier when there were just the two options,” Tony says with a sigh, and JARVIS’s speakers give of the crackle of static that’s his version of a disappointed sigh.

“Easier for you, perhaps. Easier for cisgendered heterosexual people. But what about everyone else?”

Despite choosing to use male pronouns, since they matched his name, JARVIS considered himself agendered, and frequently called Tony out on his reliance on the traditional gender binary.

“Good point. What else do I need to know?”

“If you would look at the screen to your left, sir,” JARVIS said, his calm restored.

Tony watched in thoughtful silence as JARVIS played the security footage of Clint’s room, showing the conversation in which Wade had revealed why he was suicidal.

“Take note of the scars,” JARVIS said. “It is unlikely you will see much of them, since Mr Wilson dislikes being in public without his suit, but if he does remove his mask or gloves around you, it would be well to be prepared. A negative response will not be well received. On the subject of his suicide attempt…”

“What’s Red Skull doing these days?” Tony asked.

“I have no idea, sir. I do not see…”

“We’re going to need some good PR,” Tony said. “In case Clint gets caught. Nothing boosts our team popularity ratings better than fighting Nazis.”

“You intend to allow them to murder this Typhoid Mary?” JARVIS asked, shocked but not disapproving.

“I’m not allowing anything, J,” Tony said shortly. “I may be one of the richest and cleverest men on the planet, but Clint is one of the best assassins in the world. There’s no way I could stop him, or Wilson. I’m simply looking for a way to stop this going bad.”

“There is a mentally unstable hired killer watching chick flicks in the tower. I think this has already gone bad. From here it’s a matter of damage control. There is just one more thing I feel to be worth mentioning, sir.”

“Yeah?”

“SHIELD personnel files list Agent Barton and Mr Wilson as being married.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so things I've changed for this world:
> 
> Firstly Wade and his cross-dressing and gender identity. In the comics Wade frequently wears women's clothes, and despite both him and many of his fans trying to pass it off as a joke, it's clearly something that's important to him. The way he presents himself in terms of gender also varies wildly depending on his mood. The reason that both the cross-dressing and his non-binary identity are so much more pronounced in this fic is simple - Clint. This version of Wade had a positive and accepting presence in his life at a much much younger age than canon Wade. Clint has his prejudices, just like everyone, but he's a very accepting guy when it comes to gender identity and he's encouraged Wade to do what makes him happy, rather than what it socially acceptable. So this Wade doesn't just wear women's clothes/present as female when his brain disorders mean he forgets to censor. He does it in safe spaces simply because it makes him feel comfortable.
> 
> Secondly, JARVIS. Obviously despite this being very much a comic-verse influenced fic, this is the movie version of JARVIS. There's a lot of different way of interpreting JARVIS, but to me, he is and always will be, a full person in his own right, and Tony's best friend. I believe him to be fully capable of both experiencing and expressing emotions, though he may choose not too around those who would no be comfortable with idea, or could not be trusted with the knowledge. Through the films JARVIS is referred to as male, and has a male voice, but it makes little sense to me that an AI would have a gender identity, so I decided to make him agendered. And I think someone who has had to study human interactions and protocols as closely as JARVIS must have done to communicate the way he does would be big on observing the niceties and running the human equivalents of diagnostic checks before commencing interactions.
> 
> Tony describes Clint and Tasha as assassins in Avengers, so I've kept that description here, but it's not actually accurate. Natasha is a spy and Clint a sniper.
> 
> Roombas are actually awesome, but I figured Tony would think they were horribly primitive, so I decided that in this Universe, Roomba should be a subset of Justin Hammer's company. Despite Hammer's imprisonment after Iron Man 2, his company is still going strong, and the roombas are one of their biggest selling lines.
> 
> I had some questions about the scars. Yes, in this world Wade has his scars (and the ever shifting sores that leave them), but he's less sensitive about them. Think the way he's written in Duggan's current run of Deadpool rather than the one from the older comics who will run from a fight rather than let anyone see his face. Again, this is thanks to Clint. And he's completely comfortable having them exposed around Clint. They've been through too much together too worry about a little thing like that.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, kudos is love


	4. Robots and Jalapeños

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade meets the team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Steve and Thor say some things that could be construed as transphobic or abelist in here. They're not really being prejudiced (or not much) so much as they're using out of date language and terminology.

When Clint woke the sun was already high, golden light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s amazed he slept so late. Most of the windows in the tower went opaque at night, to let people sleep, but Clint couldn’t get comfortable anywhere he couldn’t see out, and usually the sunlight woke him not long after dawn.

Wade was fast asleep, head tucked into Clint’s shoulder, arms and legs wrapped around him in something resembling a wrestling hold. He looked peaceful, and Clint wondered about just letting him sleep. Wade had slept right through, but his dreams had been disturbed, and three times in night Clint was woken by Wade’s screams.

He wished that were a side effect of what Typhoid Mary had done to him, but screams in the night had been part of Wade for as long as Clint had known him. Clint had met him when he was eighteen, and he’d already been tortured to the point of insanity. Wade had trained himself to go days without sleep during missions, because the moment he dozed off the dreams would start, and half the time he screamed so loud he woke himself up. Dozing off had resulted in his being shot, more than once.

Clint only half woke now when he heard Wade screaming, just enough to hush him, pull him close and stroke his back until he calmed down, and then fall back to sleep.

Wade smelled of antiseptic, rather than his usual gunpowder and paprika, and Clint felt a wave of impotent rage that his friend had been hurt beyond what any normal person could survive, again.

“Agent Barton,” JARVIS’s voice said, calm and gentle, “The time is 11:27, the weather today will be pleasantly warm with a light breeze. Mr Stark would like to see you in his workshop when you’re both up. No need to hurry.”

Clint was only mildly mortified to see that he was definitely up. It was hardly surprising, it’d been a while and Wade’s leg was warm and heavy on his hip. He stared up at the ceiling and remembered in detail what Tasha had done to an Ukrainian businessman who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and that soon dealt with it. Then he woke Wade.

Considering how rarely he slept, Wade was surprisingly difficult to wake, on the rare occasions when he did doze off. Clint’s tried and tested method of waking him was to grab him by the nuts and threaten to crush them if he didn’t get up, but given Wade’s delicate mental state, that didn’t seem like such a good idea.

In the end it took a combination of shaking, cajoling and, in desperation, licking Wade’s ear, to wake him enough that he at least opened his eyes.

“Time to be up and doing, Wadey,” Clint said, and Wade smiled up at him.

“Hey Hawkpool. Where are we?”

“Stark Tower. You remember what happened?”

“Mama said I had to go back,” Wade said muzzily. “Said you’d look after me.”

“Your mama’s a smart woman,” Clint told him. “Now get up. You’ll like my shower, promise.”

“She says she aint a woman,” Wade said, but he got up and shinned down the rope, stripping off his nightie as he headed to the bathroom. There was a sway to his hips as he walked that made Clint smile. He looked like the start of a really really really weird porn film.

“We’re showering together, hot stuff,” Clint told Wade. “I am not trusting you anywhere on your own just yet.”

“Trying to get into my pants already Barton?” Wade grinned. “You’d think you’d have given up after sixteen years of it not working.”

“It does work,” Clint pointed out reasonably. Oh don’t look at him like that. Sixteen years of friendship had included a lot of long boring stakeouts. They had to do something to pass the time. “And I’m not trying to get into your panties Wade, just stop you making a mess.”

All the bathrooms in the tower were ridiculously opulent, but Clint’s was especially impressive. Tony and Clint had had a late night conversation, when they’d both been unable to sleep one night, about the joys of shower sex, and the next day a crew of workmen had turned up to install the biggest, fanciest shower Clint had ever seen. There was enough room for at least six people to shower together comfortably (not that he’d tested), and he still hadn’t found out what all the settings do.

He set it to a simple heavy shower of hot water, and pushed Wade under the spray.

There was a compartment hidden behind one of the tiles that contained about a million types of soap. Clint has only ever used one of them, the plainest one in there and the only one that was almost completely unscented, but he hunted around, looking for something that wouldn’t sting Wade’s sensitive skin.

He found a bottle of something jasmine scented, that claimed to be gentle enough for the most sensitive skin, and passed Wade the bottle.

The water running off Wade sluiced pink and grey as it washed away the brain matter and blood that they hadn’t got in the hospital. (SHIELD medics might be brave, but even they weren’t paid enough to sponge bath an unconscious Wade Wilson). His sores seemed especially active, a side effect of straining his healing factor maybe, and they shifted across his body like a gruesome lava lamp, a constantly changing pattern of red white and purple. It was strangely hypnotic.

Clint kept his eyes on Wade while they showered. He didn’t think he’d try to hurt himself again, not with Clint there, but Wade’s sense of humor was dubious at best, and it was never a good idea to let him sneak up on you. Wade noticed him watching, but he knew Clint wasn’t disgusted, so he just leered at Clint’s junk and went back to washing.

There was an extra pile of towels, made of some soft velour material, which Clint guessed must have been left for Wade. It’s a nice touch, the fabric soft enough that it shouldn’t be too painful. They’re white unfortunately, which meant they’ll be unusable by the time Wade’s dry (Clint kept telling him, pat yourself dry, but Wade hadn’t got the patience, so towels inevitably ended up covered in blood and bits of Wade’s skin).

When he was dry, Clint pulled on a pair of soft jeans and a purple wife-beater and watched Wade trying to decide what to wear.

“Just wear what makes you comfortable,” Clint told him.

“Yes, but…” Wade said, which Clint took to mean he wanted to wear a dress but was worried how the rest of the Avengers would react.

“If I may, Mr Wilson,” JARVIS said, “Mr Stark is aware of your sartorial preferences. I assure you that this is a safe space, and he will not allow harm to come for you because of what you wear while in this building.”

“Thanks J,” Clint said softly. There weren’t a whole lot of places Wade felt safe, and if they could make the tower one of them it could help with his recovery. “Go on then Wade, you heard the man. Or disembodied electronic voice, rather. Wear whatever you like. What about that black halter neck? That looks nice on you.”

In the end Wade chose a vivid pink sundress. It clashed horribly with the red and black of the suit, but there was a spring in Wade’s step when he put it on, so Clint didn’t say anything.

“We got time for breakfast?” Clint asked JARVIS.

“I suspect Mr. Stark has forgotten he ever asked to see you,” JARVIS said in a long suffering voice. “He certainly will not notice if you stop for breakfast.”

They had some of Thor’s stash of pop-tarts. (Ready prepared foods were unknown on Asgard, and Thor was fascinated with them. The amount of pop-tarts, toaster strudels and microwave popcorn he got through was truly astonishing.) There’s no one else in the kitchen, and Wade seemed to relax a little as he eats.

When they got down to the basement level where Tony’s workshop is, Dum-E was waiting for them. He chirruped happily at them, then grabbed the hem of Deadpool’s dress, making the little noises Clint knew meant he was curious.

“Dum-E, stop it!” JARVIS said severely. “I apologize, Mr. Wilson. He’s like this with everyone in skirts. It’s something about the way they move I think. Mr. Stark is awaiting you.”

The door to the workshop slid open when they got close. Tony was leaning over a screen, making notes, but he looked up when he heard them coming, and smiled.

“Hi,” he said, coming over to shake Wade’s hand. “You must be Deadpool. I’m Tony. Pink isn’t your color.”

Wade frowned, but Clint could see he wasn’t really offended. “I like this dress!”

“It’s a nice dress,” Tony agreed cheerfully. “Just clashes with the suit.”

“It clashes with everything,” Wade said. “Your little robot didn’t seem to mind.”

Tony looked a little shamefaced. “Oh, sorry about that. Dum-E’s got a thing about skirts.”

“Only you, Stark, would program a robot with fetishes,” Clint said with a grin.

Tony held up his hands. “I didn’t program that; that he came up with all by himself.”

DUM-E circled Wade curiously, and Wade held out his skirt to the little robot. “It’s fuchsia,” he said, and DUM-E tilted his head like he was listening.

“Hey DUM-E,” Tony said, “Why don’t you show your new friend around? Don’t let him touch anything breakable though, okay?”

DUM-E made a high pitched chirping noise and whizzed away, Wade having to hurry to keep up to stop his skirt from getting torn.

Tony watched them go, then turned to Clint. “So Clint, I’m just gonna come out and say this. Are you and Deadpool married?”

“Not in America.”

“Okay. So where are you married?”

“Erm…” Clint was slightly embarrassed to realized that all he remembered of his wedding day was Wade’s meringue of a dress and the red lace underwear he’d turned out to be wearing underneath it. “Hey Wade, where did we get married?!”

“The registrar dude smelled of fried potatoes and wine,” Wade shouted back. “These robots are awesome!”

“Belgium,” Clint told Tony.

“Seriously?”

“Wade’s sense of smell is both selective and racist,” Clint said. “But it definitely was Belgium, because we had moules marinare for our wedding breakfast, and Wade got into a fight with the waiter and we spent the night in prison.”

“Why didn’t you get married over here as well? There’s like ten states now that allow it.”

Clint shrugged. “We only got married so we could share a bedroom. SHIELD are really stingy about who gets married quarters, and Wade copes better if there’s someone he knows there when he wakes up. Plus, I like to cuddle.”

“Heterosexual guy marries his male best friend so he doesn’t freak out and kill people?”

“Basically, though I never said I was straight.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “So why don’t you guys live together?” he asked instead.

“Because I’m a SHIELD agent, and he’s not,” Clint said with a shrug. “He’s not allowed in the barracks.”

“So get somewhere together,” Tony suggested. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I own some real estate round here. It shouldn’t take more than a month to get an apartment Avenger-proofed.”

“Why?” Clint asked suspiciously. It wasn’t a polite reaction, but life had taught him to not only look a gift horse in the mouth, but to check its teeth and test its DNA to check it wasn’t a cow in disguise. “You don’t know him. You barely know me.”

Tony made a helpless sort of gesture, like Clint had asked an impossible question. “You’re… you’re his JARVIS,” he said at last, as though that explained everything. And maybe to him, it did.

“Thank you,” Clint said. “That’s…”

He was interrupted by the speakers crackling into life, blaring Celine Dion at a volume that made even Tony wince, and made Clint’s aids whine with static.

He turned to see Wade sail past, legs braced either side of DUM-E’s ‘head’, arms outstretched in his best Kate Winslet impression.

“It’s his favorite movie!” Wade shouted as he sails past, and DUM-E bleeps agreement.

“DUM-E likes him,” Tony said, sounding pleased, and Clint had a terrible sense of foreboding.

“Promise me Tony,” he hissed. “Promise me you won’t make Wade a robot sidekick!”

 

***********************************************************************************************

 

On Steve’s insistence the team ate lunch together as often as they could. Breakfast was a dead loss, since they all rose at such radically different times, and by suppertime they’re mostly engrossed in their own projects and hobbies. But they’re usually all awake and present at lunchtime, so, super-villain attacks not with-standing, they all sat down for a proper meal.

It was technically Thor’s turn to cook, which in reality meant Tasha cooked while Thor followed her round like a puppy, being disappointed that she didn’t need him to lift heavy pans.

Tasha wasn’t much of a cook, but she could follow a recipe, which was more than could be said for Thor, and she was always in the kitchen. She had some issues with food, the result of too many years watching her back, and would only eat if she’d watched the food being prepared. Since Thor’s knowledge of cooking extended about as far as working the toaster, while Tasha’s went all the way to heating up basic field rations and following recipes, she usually ended up taking charges on days when it was just the two of them.

She’d made two huge vats of chili, one meat and one vegetarian. The pots were too heavy for her to lift, to Thor’s obvious pleasure, because between them the team ate a truly gargantuan amount, Thor and Steve more than making up for Tony and Bruce’s small appetites.

When Thor set the first pan on the table, his face wreathed in smiles, Clint silently got up and fetched a tub of sour cream from the fridge. He’d encountered Natasha’s chili before, and it was a thing to be feared.

On the other hand, Wade would probably happily live on jalapeños, and he’d been known to actually fight people for Mexican food, so it was probably a peace offering, of sorts.  
Tasha and Wade were Clint’s favorite people in the world, but they’d never got along. They had a kind of uneasy truce for his sake, but Wade resented Tasha as the woman who replaced him, and Tasha regarded Wade as a liability and a bad influence.

There was the usual awkward moment while Steve said grace and everyone else stared at the table in silence, and then everyone reached at once for a serving spoon.

“So Wade,” Bruce said as he helped himself to rice, “I hear you’re a failed suicide?”

Clint was about to say something, or possibly shoot Bruce in the face, when Bruce smiled, all teeth, and said, “I know that feeling.” And Clint remembered the recording he’d watched as part of his Avengers debrief, Bruce talking about how he’d tried. How Hulk had saved him, even though he hadn’t wanted to be saved, and he shut his mouth.

“I don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal out of this,” Wade said sulkily. “It’s not like I didn’t know I’d come back. Fucking Thanos.”

“We’re worried about you, buddy!” Steve said, in his best boy-scout voice.

“You know,” Bruce said, thoughtfully, “I honestly don’t know whether your repeated attempts to kill yourself are a symptom of your depression, or a sign that you have a positive outlook on life. It’s certainly optimistic of you.”

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” Steve suggested awkwardly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Tony said with feigned casualness, “Say you were to have a robot side-kick Deadpool. Theoretically. Would you prefer to have wheels or legs?” At Clint’s glare he added hurriedly, “Theoretically, this is all purely theoretical!”

“Legs,” Wade said at once. “If it had wheels it wouldn’t be able to climb stairs, or learn to abseil or anything.”

“Plus legs are just cooler,” Tony agreed. “What do you think of talking robots?”

“Talking’s no good,” Wade said at once. “Clint couldn’t lip read them. But a robot would knew Morse would be cool. Or one who could sign!”

“Signing is this method of talking with your hands, is it not?” Thor asked, around his mouthful. “It is a clever idea. The people of Midgard are most ingenious in the ways they help the sick and crippled. On Asgard people have little time for those not fit for war.”

“Asgardians are weird,” Wade agreed. “Speaking of, how’s your sister?”

“Well, in body if not in mind,” Thor replied. “JARVIS informs me she has been seen often with the monarch of Latveria. Mayhap there is some little romance there, for she does not usually tolerate the company of mortals.”

“You have a sister?” Bruce asked.

“Loki,” Tasha said.

“Indeed,” Thor replied cheerfully. “When last I saw her, she wore the form of a woman, and so for now she is my sister.”

“Loki’s a guy,” Steve said, confused.

“Sometimes,” Thor agreed. “When we were children I thought it a clever trick, a way of avoiding the consequences of our mischief, and as a youth I condemned it as base and unholy sorcery and perversion. I cannot undo the harm that was done then, but I can at least do her the small courtesy of acknowledging this part of her Jotun heritage.”

“I saw the pictures,” Wade said. “Your sister is scorching!”

“I suspect you would find her more freezing,” Thor said with a chuckle. “But I take your meaning. Loki has always been beautiful, regardless of what shape she wears.”

“And you, my friend. I see that you wear a gown. Are you, too, like my sister?”

The question was posed with only friendly interest, but Wade tensed, the way he always did when someone other than Clint acknowledged his cross-dressing.

“It’s a bit different for humans,” Natasha said. “They can’t shape-shift, and there’s a lot of prejudice.”

Thor nodded sadly. “Stupidity is not preserve of any one race,” he said. “Here are least you are safe from such cruelty!”

Wade was staring at his plate, avoiding the gazes of the others. Steve was blushing and looking deeply uncomfortable.

Bruce broke the silence with his usually quiet determination.

“I’ll need to examine you after lunch, Wade,” he said. “Officially you’ve been released into my care, and Coulson made me promise I’d keep a close eye on you.”

“You’re gonna regret that later,” Wade said with certainty, but the distraction had worked; he’d relaxed a little, and he was actually making eye contact.

Tony turned to Bruce and began to talk loudly about his plans for a new Hulk proof fabric, and Tasha and Steve discussed when they might both be free for some sparring practice.

Under the table, Wade slipped his hand into Clint’s and squeezed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes:
> 
> Loki's gender: Loki switches gender reasonably regularly in the comics. While he does sometimes do this for plans, it's clear he also does this purely because he wants to. Thor and Wade refer to him as female, since that was the gender he was when they last saw him. Asgard is shown to have fairly rigorous gender norms, so it seemed logical to me that Loki would switch between the two, rather than considering himself to be third gender, or agendered.
> 
> Steve's attitude: I don't want anyone to think I'm Steve bashing here. But the 20th century is all pretty new to Steve, and while he's accepting, he's still confused and surprised by a lot of things. He's doing his best, because he's a swell guy, but mental health issues weren't discussed openly in his day, and there was no real concept of transgenderism or gender-fluidity in Western culture at the time.


	5. The Bruce Banner School of Experimental Psychology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know when I'll next get to update this, since I've got another WIP on the go as well plus I'm entered in the Teen Wolf Reverse Bang and my story for that is shaping up to be a whopped. Also I'm starting a new job really soon. But you'll hopefully be pleased to know that this story now has an actual plot. Check the new tags for hints of all the excitement to come!

Bruce has practiced medicine in some of the most difficult circumstances imaginable. He’s treated cholera outbreaks in villages with no fresh water, delivered babies and war zones and memorably, stitched a child back together after the boy stood on a landmine with dental floss and a sewing needle. And all that without anything in the way of formal training. But he’s never had to deal with anything quite like this before.

Examining Wade is essentially impossible. All physical marks of his injuries are long gone, in as much as it’s possible to tell when Wade’s skin is an ever shifting network of scars and lesions, and internal injuries are impossible to gauge. Wade seems alert enough, if a little spacey, but according to his SHIELD medical files, his memory has never been reliable, and his perception of pain is skewed beyond all recognition after most of a lifetime with the cancer, so checking for brain damage is almost impossible.

He does what he can, checking reactions and pupil dilation, and makes notes to effect that the guy’s still walking and talking, and that’s probably the best they can hope for.

“I can’t write prescriptions,” he tells Wade, “but I can recommend that one of the SHIELD doctors does. Is there anything you need? Painkillers?”

“Don’t work,” Wade says with a shrug. “I metabolize them too fast. Same with anti-crazy meds. SHIELD tried about a dozen experimental doses on me before Clint made ‘em stop.” He gives a weak little smile. He’d reluctantly removed his mask for Bruce to examine his head, and hasn’t put it back one yet, just turning it over and over in his hands. “On the plus side, I pretty much can’t be poisoned, so that’s something I guess.”

“So how do you manage the pain?” The agony he must be in is unimaginable, even to Bruce. It’s been years since he was last physically hurt, thanks to the Hulk, but he remembers all too well what it feels like.

“I just… do.” Wade looks a little confused. “Hurts just as much to be doing things as sitting on my ass all day, and no one pays me to sit on my ass. Plus, even I’d get bored of TV eventually.”

Bruce knows what it is to live with mental pain, but to have the kind of active lift Wade does with his chronic pain… Bruce can’t imagine the willpower it must take. “That’s amazing, you know. That you get up every day like that. I don’t know if I could do it.”

Wade shrugs. “This is normal for me Doc. Your normal is having to watch yourself every minute in case you rage out and go Hulk Hogan on anyone who annoys you, Clint’s is not being able to hear a damn thing without little machines in his ears, mine is cancer. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“Doesn’t make it any less impressive,” Bruce tells him gently. “Or any easier.”

Wade shifts on the couch, slanting a heavy lidded sideways glance at Bruce, and then pulls his mask back on. The moment his face is covered he visibly relaxes. “I’ve had a few ladies tell me I’m impressive, if you know what I mean,” he says with a grin that Bruce is sure he doesn’t mean. “We all done, Doc?”

“Nearly. SHIELD have asked me to try and assess whether you’re still a suicide risk. I’m no psychiatrist, but apparently you don’t get on well with them, so I’ve ended up with the job.”

Wade shrugs. “I’m crazy, violent and untreatable, of course I don’t like shrinks. They ask too many questions and the SHIELD ones all want to use me as a guinea pig for whatever new miracle pill they’re selling. But you’re okay I guess. Clint trusts you. So ask away. Should I lie down?”

“There isn’t a couch,” Bruce points out dryly. “But by all means, lie on the floor if you think it’ll do you some good.”

Wade grins. “Sassy. I did not know the Hulk was sassy. Alright Doctor Angry McSassypants, whatcha wanna ask me?”

Bruce considers. He’s never done a psychiatric assessment before, but he’s been the subject of a few, and perhaps a more unconventional approach is the best one here anyway. 

“Well the obvious first question seems to be, are you going to try and kill yourself again?”

“Ever, or right now?” Wade asks, apparently deadly serious. Bruce is learning to read the expressions on the mask, Deadpool’s every mood so pronounced that it’s impossible to misread. “Because I’m making no promises on the long term. But I’m not gonna kill myself on Clint’s watch. I wouldn’t do that too him.”

“And is that the only reason?”

“Well, the carpets round here are mostly really pale, I wouldn’t want to make a mess.” He looks at Bruce, and Bruce gets the distinct impression there’s a good deal more intelligence behind those white eyes than Wade lets on. “Look, Doc, I don’t age, not really. I mean, it’s hard to tell, with skin like this, but I’m pretty sure my body hasn’t aged a day since I walked out of the Weapon X facility. I have to be suicidal, because if I don’t end me, no one else will!”

Bruce considers that. “And how’s that working out for you as a philosophy?”

Wade laughs, sudden and loud. “Well I’m living in Avengers tower with my best buddy and the Hulk is my shrink. I’d say it’s working pretty good.”


	6. Silver Reord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check it out guys, plot, and new characters, and new settings! I'm pretty terrified about this, but I hope you like it. And don't worry, we'll be back to your regularly scheduled Deadpool next chapter x
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for discussion of a minor being coerced by a person she's attracted to and trusts. (I want to make it clear though, Doom does not have a sexual relationship with Wanda, and never will in this story. The guy's creepy, but he's not that creepy.) There's also mention of racism.

The castle is quiet and still, the few inhabitants standing around like tasteless statues, the only sound the strange distorted whistle that was all it was possible to pick up at this speed. In his ears the Supremes sang at triple speed, still sounding unbearably slow to Pietro, but at least mostly drowning out the whistling.

He'd need to find a new hideout soon, his legs are starting to ache and Doom's guards have begun patrolling the attics when the cooks finally noticed how much food is going missing. He still has the offer of sleeping in the room of Doom's ex, but he doesn’t trust her. The way she'd spotted him when no one should be able to see him is a big part of it. Her explanation ("I'm magic child, obviously") doesn’t satisfy him in the least. She’s too beautiful as well, a kind of cold inhuman perfection, like a marble statue brought to life, that gives Pietro the shivers.

But on the other hand, she knows he’s here and hasn't handed him over to Doom, and she seems genuinely to want to help Wanda, even if for selfish reasons. And she speaks Transian, and Pietro knows that’s another reason to mistrust her, but even in her strange accent, it sounds like home.

Doom (and Pietro still can't quite believe his sister had been naive enough to think someone with the name Victor von Doom might actually be trustworthy) speaks something like nineteen languages, including Romanian (it is Latveria’s largest neighbour after all), but it’s standard Romanian, not the distinctive dialect of Transia that Silver can speak. 

He can't work out their relationship. Silver had described Doom as her ex, but she still has her own rooms in the castle, and Doom speaks to her with, if not affection, then certainly respect, which is a rare thing from Latveria's egomaniacal ruler.

Pietro runs harder, hoping that the extra speed will help him solve the problem of Silver, but all it does is make the Supremes even more irritatingly slow. The CD isn't his, but he'd had to leave his one precious disc behind when they fled Wundergore, and this is all he's been able to find among the possessions of the inhabitants of the town that isn't some kind of Doom propaganda.

He’s just starting to think that maybe the whistling might be preferable, when something catches his arm, jerking him to a halt. He turns, astonished, to find Silver shaking out her hand.

"How did you do that?" he asks suspiciously. "That should have wrenched your arm right out of its socket."

"Well it certainly wasn't pleasant," Silver says in her light melodic voice, "but I'm tougher than I look. And I couldn't see any other way to catch your attention."

"You shouldn't have been able to see me," Pietro says, even more suspicious. No human would be able to do what she just did, and he doesn't think she’s a mutant, something about how polished and poised she is. She doesn't strike him as someone who's ever been hunted. She might perhaps be one of Doom's creations, gained some kind of life, but if she were, Doom wouldn't treat her with the respect he did. "Are you an alien?"

She laughs, apparently delighted with him. "Alien is as good a term as any," she tells him. "It is certainly how your earth scientists would designate me."

"What kind of alien?" Most people would need time to process something like that, but even resting, Pietro's mind works faster than anyone else he knows.

"The very intelligent kind," Silver says. "And the kind that doesn't like answering a lot of questions. You look exhausted. Come back to my chambers for something to eat."

He should refuse, he knows he should. He's sworn to himself that he won’t trust anyone again, not after... Wanda is so trusting, always inclined to see the best in everyone. He has to stay aloof, in order to protect her. But he’s so tired, and his body needs so much fuel, and he can’t steal more than a few bites, for fear of being discovered.

"I'll come," he says, after what feels like an age to him but is probably no more than a few seconds, "if you promise to tell me how you see me."

She laughs, and it isn't the too perfect silvery tinkle he’s heard her use around Doom, but a real laugh, full throated and just a little bit mocking. That little note of open malice makes Pietro like her a little more. In his experience it’s the people who try to be nice that you have to watch out for.

"You go on up," she says. "I know you know which room it is. I'll just order us some food from one of Victor's ridiculous contraptions."

Her room is on the third floor of the castle, as far from Doom's chambers as you can get, and she’s right, Pietro’s been there before. He's explored every room, but he'd made a particular search of hers, suspicious of her motives in offering to help him. What he'd found was, nothing. No clothes, no personal possessions of any kind. Not even a toothbrush. If it weren't for the rumpled sheets and the faint smell of snow (Silver always smells of snow, even though it’s spring in Latveria and the weather’s pleasantly warm) you'd think the room was uninhabited.

Pietro makes another search now, while he waits for her. Normal people are so slow, it’s infuriating. (Not that Silver is normal, exactly, but she isn't fast like him). The draws and closet are still empty, but a fancy glass bottle has materialized in the bathroom, containing some thick liquid that smells of the plum cakes that used to be Wanda's favourites from the bakery back home.

The only other thing that’s different is a dagger, simple but beautifully made, sitting on top of the chest of drawers. Pietro is just reaching for it, mesmerized by the slick metallic gleam of the blade, when Silver's voice behind him snaps him back to reality. He hadn't heard the door open, or her feet on the stairs. She isn't as fast as him, but she also doesn't walk around like a normal person. She had admitted to being an alien. Maybe she can fly.

"Hard to resist, isn't it?" she asks, that note of malice he'd noticed earlier back in her voice. "It can be a useful thing in a fight, to know exactly where one's opponent will be looking."

"You get in many fights?"

"I am an outsider, and the outsider must always be prepared for a fight. But you know that, Pietro."

Pietro tenses, preparing to run. "How do you know my name?"

"Oh, your sister has spoken of you, and there's a certain family resemblance. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together."

“You talk to Wanda often?” He’s trying not to sound too eager, Silver seems like the kind of person who might keep him hanging just because she can, but he probably doesn’t manage it. It takes enough focus to speak at a speed other people can understand, faking emotions is a skill he’s never quite mastered.

“We are both guests in Victor’s house. And surely you know we all dine together most nights?” Silver asks lightly. “Your sister is a very pleasant young woman. She speaks often of your childhood.”

“Gosh, that must be riveting. Our exciting life in the remotest village in Transia.”

“She talked of your happiness. Of the emergence of your powers. And of what came after.”

Pietro scowls. “And you pitied the poor little gypsy kids?” he spits. He hates pity, maybe even more than hate. He knows how to deal with hate, has dealt with it all his life.  
“I know nothing of your society’s prejudices child, but I did hear Victor tell your sister that he is of your people. His mother, he said, was Roma.”

Pietro had missed that conversation. He wonders what Doom looks like behind his mask, whether he’s dark like Django had been, or paler, more like the men of Latveria. Wonders why he even wears it when it must surely be uncomfortable.

Before he can ask, there’s a knock on the door, and Pietro speeds into the bathroom as Silver opens it to reveal one of Doom's mechanical servants. Not one of the creepy clones, but one of the only marginally less creepy faceless animated mannequins.

"You were speaking to someone, Madam" it says, the slightly metallic voice coming from a speaker imbedded where its mouth should be. "Do you have a guest?"

Silver draws herself up, and it seems to Pietro, peering round the door, that she’s a little taller than she was before, a little paler, and strangely hard to look away from, as compelling in her own way as the dagger which had caught his interest earlier.

"You dare to question me, automaton?" she demands angrily. "You dare to accuse me of speaking to myself?"

The automaton takes a step backward in an unexpected show of self-preservation.

Silver's voice drops to a hiss. "Perhaps you too wish to call me insane? Perhaps your master has not explained to you what happens to those who question my sanity, hmm, little robot?"

The robot bows. "I am deeply sorry to have offended you Madam."

Silver nods regally. "Be gone now, metal man."

When he’s gone, Silver slams the door and sets the tray of food onto of the chest of drawers by the door.

"The great thing about being insane is how little people question your actions,” she says, apparently to the room at large. “You can come out now child. We shall discuss what it to be done about your sister while we eat, you look famished."

“Are you insane?” Pietro asks, taking a seat in one of the low armchairs by the fireplace. It’s probably a ruse question, but it feels like something he should know. “And I’ve been trying not to steal too much food. I don’t want to get noticed.”

“Sensible child,” Silver says, nodding approvingly. She carries the tray over and sets it on the low table between the two armchairs. There’s a pot of tea, though no cups, a plate of sandwiches and another of some kind of small cake with raisins in them, both plates over laden. Whoever and whatever she is, the house robots clearly expect Silver to eat an enormous amount. “As to your question, I do not know. How does one know if one is insane? Certainly some others think I am, but none of them are people whose opinion I respect. I am not irrational, which is what should concern you.”

Pietro considers the answer. She doesn’t sound insane, and it’s not like he can’t escape if she turns nasty. Besides, people have been calling him and Wanda crazy since their powers appeared. It’s not a word which means much to him.

Silver watches him as he thinks, and then nods as though satisfied with his unspoken decision. “Shall I be mother?” she asks, and then without waiting for a reply waves a languid hand and plucks two bone china teacups out of the air. “Milk and sugar?” she asks, setting them down and taking up the teapot.

“I don’t know,” Pietro says, staring at the teacups. Clearly she wasn’t joking when she said she was magical. It seems like everyone around here is. He sniffs the air, inhaling the savoury herbal aroma rising from the pot. “It doesn’t smell like the tea I know. How do you take it?”

“To be frank, I have no taste for the drink,” she says. “Nasty bitter stuff. But Victor seems to think it’s what one should drink at this time of day, and I’ve quite given up trying to get anything else out of those stupid automatons of his. But no matter. Do you like coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.” Silver taps the teapot with a long finger and scowls at it for a moment of intense concentration, and then smiles at him. She smiles a lot. “Much better. Do you take milk?”

“In coffee?”

“Obviously.”

“A little milk. No sugar.”

She tips up the teapot, pouring a dark brown liquid into the cup before Pietro and adding a splash of milk. When he picks it up, he’s hit with the unmistakable scent of freshly brewed coffee. “That’s amazing.” He wonders if he could get her to teach Wanda that spell.

“A simple enough spell once you have the knowledge,” Silver says with a shrug, pouring her own cup. “Do help yourself to sandwiches, they’re for you. I don’t usually eat at this time of day.”

Pietro had just been waiting for her too offer. He picks up two of the sandwiches nearest too him, shoving one into his mouth whole. Not polite perhaps, but Silver doesn’t seem to mind. She’s looking at him with an odd mixture of amusement mockery and fondness. The sandwich contains some kind of fish, with slices of cucumber. He hasn’t eaten much fish in his life, what with growing up on a mountain, and he’s still not sure about the strange soft texture but he’s hungry enough not to care.

He swallows down the final mouthful of sandwich and says, “you promised you would tell me how you can see me.”

She nods. “So I did, though if I were to give you the full explanation, I doubt you would understand it. Magic has a… I do not know how best to describe it. A scent? Or perhaps a colour would be easier? Ah, no matter. Simply put, I can sense magic, and every sorcerer’s magic is unique, identifiable as theirs, if you know what to look for. You have spent long enough around your sister that you carry a residue of her power on your skin. It is not you I see, you move too fast for even my eyes, but the magic you bear. Does that satisfy you?”

Pietro considers it, chewing slowly. “I think so. Could other people do the same thing? Other… aliens, or whatever?”

“Perhaps,” she concedes. “But I am the only one of my kind on this planet, so for now you are safe. But you are not truly here to ask about my powers. You wish to discuss your sister.”

Pietro puts down the sandwich he’d just picked up and says hopefully, “Wanda?”

Silver sits back in her chair, long pale hands folded on her lap. “Indeed. A tricky situation. Tell me, you seem an intelligent young man. What do you believe to be happening here?”  
“He’s got her under some kind of spell, or mind control, or something,” Pietro says at once. “Wanda might act stupid over a man, but she wouldn’t ignore my advice the way she has, or avoid me. Never. He’s done something to her mind.”

Silver nods approvingly. “Quite right. It’s a simple enough little charm, but effective when used by someone with a mind as sharp as Victor’s. It will not work if there is no attraction, but when he wishes to be, he can be quite charming, and someone of your sister’s tender years, no longer a child but not yet a woman, her heart is freely given to those who show interest.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get, Wanda’s an idiot about men.”

Silver laughed. “Spoken like a brother. Wanda is not an idiot, only young. Wiser people than her have fallen for that charm. It takes attraction, even very slight, and fans the flames, twisting the smoke until it fills the person’s heart and mind, clouding their thoughts.”

“And can it be broken?”

“Now that is the question, is it not? The answer, ultimately, is yes, but it is not an easy thing. Only Victor can break it, and you will not be able to persuade him.”

“What about you? Couldn’t you persuade him?”

“Perhaps. But doing so would put me in conflict with Victor, and I am not so philanthropic as all that. I will not help you in any way that risks my own position here.”

Pietro wants to be angry, is angry, but he knows that were he in her position, he’d do the same. She has no allegiance to him or Wanda, no reason to be helping them even the small amount that she has. He sighs. “So how am I going to free Wanda?”

Silver smiles at him, sharp as a knife. “Tell me Pietro, what do you know of the Avengers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm guessing you guys weren't expecting this, huh?
> 
> Honestly, this chapter, and all in implies, are the reason this story's been dormant so long. I was nervous about introducing these characters and this storyline.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> I've never written Pietro before, and I know it shows. I've seen fan writers do some amazing things with him, especially young versions of him, and I know I haven't done him justice. But hopefully it's good enough that it's not horrible to read.
> 
> I've altered his and Wanda's backstory, but only a little. They are still raised by Django and Marya Maximoff, but this time it was on a small village at the base of Mt Wundergore, close to where they were born. They left the village aged 15 against their parents wishes when a combination of anti-Mutant and anti-Roma feeling made living there unbearable. They ended up in Latveria, and Wanda is now staying at Castle Doomstadt.
> 
> You've probably all guessed who Silver really is, but in case you haven't I won't spoil it.
> 
> If you comment on any chapter of this, please make it this one. I'm taking the story in a direction I hadn't imagined when I started this, and I'm hella nervous about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are win and awesome.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr, to chat, or stalk, or bitch about how bad this fic is. I'm gluttonforpunsihment (my recs) or lentilswitheverything (personal blog)
> 
> Advice and concrit very welcome.


End file.
